Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan

“There’s rich, there’s filthy rich, and then there’s crazy rich … A Pride and Prejudice-like send-up about an heir bringing his Chinese-American girlfriend home to meet his ancestor-obsessed family, the book hilariously skewers imperial splendor and the conniving antics of the Asians jet set.” –People
When Rachel Chu agrees to spend the summer in Singapore with her boyfriend, Nicholas Young, she envisions a humble family home, long drives to explore the island, and quality time with the man she might one day marry. What she doesn’t know is that Nick’s family home happens to look like a palace, that she’ll ride in more private planes than cars, and that with one of Asia’s most eligible bachelors on her arm, Rachel might as well have a target on her back. Initiated into a world of dynastic splendor beyond imagination, Rachel meets Astrid, the It Girl of Singapore society; Eddie, whose family practically lives in the pages of Hong Kong Tatler; and Eleanor, Nick’s formidable mother, a woman who has very strong feelings about who her son should–and should not–marry. Uproarious, addictive, and filled with jaw-dropping opulence, Crazy Rich Asians is an insider’s look at the Asian Jet Set, a perfect depiction of the clash between old money and new money, between Overseas Chinese and Mainland Chinese, and a fabulous novel about what it means to be young, in love, and gloriously, disgustingly rich.

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Pr o l o g u e : Th e Co u s i n s
LONDON, 1986
Nicholas Young slumped into the nearest seat in the hotel lobby,
drained from the sixteen- hour ﬂight from Singapore, the train ride
from Heathrow Airport, and trudging through the rain- soaked
streets. His cousin Astrid Leong shivered stoically next to him,
all because her mother, Felicity, his dai gu cheh— or “big aunt” in
Cantonese— said it was a sin to take a taxi nine blocks and forced
everyone to walk all the way from Piccadilly Tube Station.
Anyone else happening upon the scene might have noticed an
unusually composed eight- year- old boy and an ethereal wisp of a girl
sitting quietly in a corner, but all Reginald Ormsby saw from his desk
overlooking the lobby were two little Chinese children staining the
damask settee with their sodden coats. And it only got worse from
there. Three Chinese women stood nearby, frantically blotting them-
selves dry with tissues, while a teenager slid wildly across the lobby,
his sneakers leaving muddy tracks on the black- and- white checker-
board marble.
Ormsby rushed downstairs from the mezzanine, knowing he
could more ef ciently dispatch these foreigners than his front- desk
clerks. “Good evening, I am the general manager. Can I help you?”
he said slowly, over- enunciating every word.
“Yes, good evening, we have a reservation,” the woman replied
in perfect English.
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Ormsby peered at her in surprise. “What name is it under?”
“Eleanor Young and family.”
Ormsby froze— he recognized the name, especially since the
Young party had booked the Lancaster Suite. But who could have
imagined that “Eleanor Young” would turn out to be Chinese, and
how on earth did she end up here? The Dorchester or the Ritz might
let this kind in, but this was the Calthorpe, owned by the Calthorpe-
Cavendish- Gores since the reign of George IV and run for all intents
and purposes like a private club for the sort of families that appeared
in Debrett’s or the Almanach de Gotha. Ormsby considered the bedrag-
gled women and the dripping children. The Dowager Marchioness
of Uckﬁeld was staying through the weekend, and he could scarcely
imagine what she would make of these folk appearing at breakfast
tomorrow. He made a swift decision. “I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t
seem to ﬁnd a booking under that name.”
“Are you sure?” Eleanor asked in surprise.
“Quite sure.” Ormsby grinned tightly.
Felicity Leong joined her sister- in- law at the front desk. “Is there
a problem?” she asked impatiently, eager to get to the room to dry
her hair.
“Alamak,
*
they can’t ﬁnd our reservation,” Eleanor sighed.
“How come? Maybe you booked it under another name?” Felic-
ity inquired.
“No, lah. Why would I do that? It was always booked under my
name,” Eleanor replied irritatedly. Why did Felicity always assume
she was incompetent? She turned back to the manager. “Sir, can you
please check again? I reconﬁrmed our reservation just two days ago.
We’re supposed to be in your largest suite.”
“Yes, I know you booked the Lancaster Suite, but I can’t ﬁnd
your name anywhere,” Ormsby insisted.
“Excuse me, but if you know we booked the Lancaster Suite, why
don’t we have the room?” Felicity asked, confused.
Bloody hell. Ormsby cursed at his own slip- up. “No, no, you mis-
* Malay slang used to express shock or exasperation like “oh dear” or “oh my God.”
Alamak and lah are the two most commonly used slang words in Singapore. (Lah is
a suf x that can be used at the end of any phrase for emphasis, but there’s no good
explanation for why people use it, lah.)
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understood. What I meant was that you might think you booked the
Lancaster Suite, but I certainly can’t ﬁnd any record of it.” He turned
away for a moment, pretending to rummage through some other
paperwork.
Felicity leaned over the polished oak counter and pulled the
leather- bound reservations book toward her, ﬂipping through pages.
“Look! It says right here ‘Mrs. Eleanor Young— Lancaster Suite for
four nights.’ Do you not see this?”
“Madam! That is PRIVATE!” Ormsby snapped in fury, startling
his two junior clerks, who glanced uncomfortably at their manager.
Felicity peered at the balding, red- faced man, the situation sud-
denly becoming abundantly clear. She hadn’t seen this particular
brand of superior sneer since she was a child growing up in the wan-
ing days of colonial Singapore, and she thought this kind of overt
racism had ceased to exist. “Sir,” she said politely but ﬁrmly, “this
hotel came highly recommended to us by Mrs. Mince, the wife of
the Anglican Bishop of Singapore, and I clearly saw our name in your
registry book. I don’t know what sort of funny business is going on,
but we have traveled a very long way and our children are tired and
cold. I insist that you honor our reservation.”
Ormsby was indignant. How dare this Chinese woman with the
Thatcheresque perm and preposterous “English” accent speak to
him in such a manner? “I’m afraid we simply do not have anything
available,” he declared.
“Are you telling me that there are no rooms left in this entire
hotel?” Eleanor said incredulously.
“Yes,” he replied curtly.
“Where are we supposed to go at this hour?” Eleanor asked.
“Perhaps someplace in Chinatown?” Ormsby snifed. These for-
eigners had wasted enough of his time.
Felicity went back to where her younger sister Alexandra Cheng
stood guarding the luggage. “Finally! I can’t wait to take a hot bath,”
Alexandra said eagerly.
“Actually, this odious man is refusing to give us our room!”
Felicity said, making no attempt to hide her fury.
“What? Why?” Alexandra asked, completely confused.
“I think it has something to do with us being Chinese,” Felicity
said, as if she didn’t quite believe her own words.
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“Gum suey ah!”
*
Alexandra exclaimed. “Let me talk to him. Liv-
ing in Hong Kong, I have more experience dealing with these types.”
“Alix, don’t bother. He’s a typical ang mor gau sai! ”
†
Eleanor
exclaimed.
“Even so, isn’t this supposed to be one of London’s top hotels?
How can they get away with that sort of behavior?” Alexandra asked.
“Exactly!” Felicity raged on. “The English are normally so lovely,
I have never been treated like this in all my years coming here.”
Eleanor nodded in agreement, even though privately she felt that
Felicity was partly to blame for this ﬁasco. If Felicity wasn’t so giam
siap
‡
and had let them take a taxi from Heathrow, they would have
arrived looking far less disheveled. (Of course, it didn’t help that her
sisters- in- law always looked so dowdy, she had to dress down when-
ever she traveled with them, ever since that trip to Thailand when
everyone mistook them for her maids.)
Edison Cheng, Alexandra’s twelve- year- old son, approached the
ladies nonchalantly, sipping soda from a tall glass.
“Aiyah, Eddie! Where did you get that?” Alexandra exclaimed.
“From the bartender, of course.”
“How did you pay for it?”
“I didn’t— I told him to charge it to our suite,” Eddie replied
breezily. “Can we go up now? I’m starving and I want to order from
room service.”
Felicity shook her head in disapproval— Hong Kong boys were
notoriously pampered, but this nephew of hers was incorrigible.
Good thing they were here to put him in boarding school, where
he would have some sense knocked into him— cold morning show-
ers and stale toast with Bovril was what he needed. “No, no, we’re
not staying here anymore. Go and watch Nicky and Astrid while we
decide what to do,” Felicity instructed.
Eddie walked over to his younger cousins, resuming the game
* Cantonese for “How rotten!”
† A charming Hokkien colloquialism that translates to “red- haired” (ang mor) “dog
shit” ( gau sai ). Used in reference to all Westerners, it’s usually shortened to a simple
“ang mor.”
‡ Hokkien for “stingy,” “miserly.” (The vast majority of Singaporeans speak English,
but it is a common practice to mash up words in Malay, Indian, and various Chinese
dialects to form a local patois known as “Singlish.”)
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they had begun on the plane. “Of the sofa! Remember, I’m the chair-
man, so I’m the one who gets to sit,” he commanded. “Here, Nicky,
hold my glass while I sip from the straw. Astrid, you’re my executive
secretary, so you need to massage my shoulders.”
“I don’t know why you get to be the chairman, while Nicky is the
vice president and I have to be the secretary,” Astrid protested.
“Didn’t I explain this already? I’m the chairman, because I am
four years older than the both of you. You’re the executive secretary,
because you’re the girl. I need a girl to massage my shoulders and to
help choose jewelry for all my mistresses. My best friend Leo’s father,
Ming Kah- Ching, is the third- richest man in Hong Kong, and that’s
what his executive secretary does.”
“Eddie, if you want me to be your vice president, I should be
doing something more important than holding your glass,” Nick
argued. “We still haven’t decided what our company makes.”
“I’ve decided— we make custom limousines, like Rolls- Royces
and Jags,” Eddie declared.
“Can’t we make something cooler, like a time machine?” Nick
asked.
“Well, these are ultra- special limousines with features like
Jacuzzis, secret compartments, and James Bond ejector seats,” Eddie
said, bouncing up from the settee so suddenly that he knocked the
glass out of Nick’s hand. Coca- Cola spilled everywhere, and the
sound of smashing glass pierced the lobby. The bell captain, con-
cierge, and front- desk clerks glared at the children. Alexandra rushed
over, shaking a ﬁnger in dismay.
“Eddie! Look what you’ve done!”
“It wasn’t my fault— Nicky was the one who dropped it,” Eddie
began.
“But it’s your glass, and you hit it out of my hand!” Nick defended
himself.
Ormsby approached Felicity and Eleanor. “I’m afraid I’m going
to have to ask you to leave the premises.”
“Can we just use your telephone?” Eleanor pleaded.
“I do think the children have done quite enough damage for one
night, don’t you?” he hissed.
It was still drizzling, and the group huddled under a green- and-
white-striped awning on Brook Street while Felicity stood inside a
phone booth frantically calling other hotels.
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“Dai gu cheh looks like a soldier in a sentry box in that red booth,”
Nick observed, rather thrilled by the strange turn of events. “Mummy,
what are we going to do if we can’t ﬁnd a place to stay tonight? Maybe
we can sleep in Hyde Park. There’s an amazing weeping beech in
Hyde Park called the upside- down tree, and its branches hang down
so low that it’s almost like a cave. We can all sleep underneath and
be protected— ”
“Don’t talk nonsense! No one is sleeping in the park. Dai gu cheh
is calling other hotels right now,” Eleanor said, thinking that her son
was getting far too precocious for his own good.
“Oooh, I want to sleep in the park!” Astrid squealed in delight.
“Nicky, remember how we moved that big iron bed at Ah Ma’s house
into the garden and slept under the stars one night?”
“Well, you two can sleep in the loong kau
*
for all I care, but I’ll
take the big royal suite, where I can order club sandwiches with
champagne and caviar,” Eddie said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Eddie. When have you ever had caviar?”
his mother asked.
“At Leo’s house. Their butler always serves us caviar with little
triangles of toasted bread. And it’s always Iranian beluga, because
Leo’s mum says Iranian caviar is the best,” Eddie declared.
“Connie Ming would say something like that,” Alexandra mut-
tered under her breath, glad her son was ﬁnally away from that fam-
ily’s inﬂuence.
Inside the telephone booth, Felicity was trying to explain the
predicament to her husband over a crackly connection to Singapore.
“What nonsense, lah! You should have demanded the room!”
Harry Leong fumed. “You are always too polite— these service peo-
ple need to be put in their place. Did you tell them who we are? I’m
going to call up the minister of trade and investment right now!”
“Come on, Harry, you’re not helping. I’ve called more than ten
hotels already. Who knew that today was Commonwealth Day?
Every VIP is in town and everyone is booked solid. Poor Astrid is
soaked through. We need to ﬁnd someplace for tonight before your
daughter catches her death of cold.”
“Did you try calling your cousin Leonard? Maybe you could take
a train straight to Surrey,” Harry suggested.
* Cantonese for “gutter.”
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“I did. He’s not in— he’s grouse hunting in Scotland all week-
end.”
“What a bloody mess!” Harry sighed. “Let me call Tommy Toh
over at the Singapore embassy. I’m sure they can sort things out.
What is the name of this bloody racist hotel?”
“The Calthorpe,” Felicity answered.
“Alamak, is this the place owned by Rupert Calthorpe- something-
something?” Harry asked, suddenly perking up.
“I have no idea.”
“Where is it located?”
“It’s in Mayfair, close to Bond Street. It’s actually a rather beauti-
ful hotel, if it wasn’t for this horrible manager.”
“Yes, I think that’s it! I played golf with Rupert what’s his name
and a few other Brits last month in California, and I remember him
telling me all about his place. Felicity, I have an idea. I’m going to call
this Rupert fellow. Just stay put and I’ll call you back.”
Ormsby stared in disbelief when the three Chinese children burst
through the front door again, barely an hour after he had evicted the
whole lot of them.
“Eddie, I’m getting myself a drink. If you want one, go get it your-
self,” Nick said ﬁrmly to his cousin as he walked toward the lounge.
“Remember what your mummy said. It’s too late for us to drink
Cokes,” Astrid warned as she skipped through the lobby, trying to
catch up with the boys.
“Well then, I’ll get a rum and coke,” Eddie said brazenly.
“What on God’s green earth . . .” Ormsby bellowed, storming
across the lobby to intercept the children. Before he could reach them,
he suddenly caught sight of Lord Rupert Calthorpe- Cavendish- Gore
ushering the Chinese women into the lobby, seemingly in the midst of
conducting a tour. “And my grandfather brought over René Lalique
in 1918 to do the glass murals you see here in the great hall. Needless
to say, Lutyens, who supervised the restoration, did not approve of
these art nouveau ﬂourishes.” The women laughed politely.
The staf quickly snapped to attention, surprised to see the old
lord, who hadn’t set foot inside the hotel in years. Lord Rupert turned
toward the hotel manager. “Ah, Wormsby, isn’t it?”
“Yes, m’lord,” he said, too dazed to correct his boss.
“Would you kindly have some rooms readied for the lovely Mrs.
Young, Mrs. Leong, and Mrs. Cheng?”
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“But sir, I just— ” Ormsby tried to protest.
“And Wormsby,” Lord Rupert continued dismissively, “I am
entrusting you to inform the staf of a very important announce-
ment: as of this evening, my family’s long history as custodians of
the Calthorpe has come to an end.”
Ormsby stared at him in utter disbelief. “M’lord, surely there’s
some mistake— ”
“No, no mistake at all. I sold the Calthorpe a short while ago,
lock, stock, and barrel. May I present the new mistress, Mrs. Felicity
Leong.”
“WHAT?”
“Yes, Mrs. Leong’s husband, Harry Leong— a wonderful chap
with a lethal right- arm swing, whom I met at Pebble Beach— called
me up and made me a marvelous ofer. I can now devote all my time
to boneﬁshing in Eleuthera without having to worry about this
Gothic pile.”
Ormsby stared at the women, his mouth agape.
“Ladies, why don’t we join your adorable children at the Long
Bar for a toast?” Lord Rupert said merrily.
“That would be wonderful,” Eleanor replied. “But ﬁrst, Felicity,
isn’t there something you wanted to tell this man?”
Felicity turned to Ormsby, now looking as if he was about to
faint. “Oh yes, I almost forgot,” she began with a smile, “I’m afraid
I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”
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Part One
Nowhere in the world are there to be found
people richer than the Chinese.
IBN BATUTA (FOURTEENTH CENTURY)
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1
Ni c h o l a s Yo u n g a n d Ra c h e l Ch u
NEW YORK, 2010
“You sure about this?” Rachel asked again, blowing softly on the
surface of her steaming cup of tea. They were sitting at their usual
window table at Tea & Sympathy, and Nick had just invited her to
spend the summer with him in Asia.
“Rachel, I’d love it if you came,” Nick reassured her. “You weren’t
planning on teaching this summer, so what’s your worry? Think you
won’t be able to handle the heat and humidity?”
“No, that’s not it. I know you’re going to be so busy with all your
best- man duties, and I wouldn’t want to distract you,” Rachel said.
“What distraction? Colin’s wedding is only going to take up the
ﬁrst week in Singapore, and then we can spend the rest of the sum-
mer just bumming around Asia. Come on, let me show you where I
grew up. I want to take you to all my favorite haunts.”
“Will you show me the sacred cave where you lost your virgin-
ity?” Rachel teased, arching an eyebrow playfully.
“Deﬁnitely! We can even stage a reenactment!” Nick laughed,
slathering jam and clotted cream onto a scone still warm from the
oven. “And doesn’t a good friend of yours live in Singapore?”
“Yes, Peik Lin, my best friend from college,” Rachel said. “She’s
been trying to get me to come visit for years.”
“All the more reason. Rachel, you’re going to love it, and I just
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know you’re going to ﬂip out over the food! You do realize Singapore
is the most food- obsessed country on the planet?”
“Well, just watching the way you fawn over everything you eat, I
ﬁgured it’s pretty much the national sport.”
“Remember Calvin Trillin’s New Yorker piece on Singapore street
foods? I’ll take you to all the local dives even he doesn’t know about.”
Nick took another bite of his ﬂufy scone and continued with his
mouth full. “I know how much you love these scones. Just wait till
you taste my Ah Ma’s— ”
“Your Ah Ma bakes scones?” Rachel tried to imagine a tradi-
tional Chinese grandmother preparing this quintessentially English
confection.
“Well, she doesn’t exactly bake them herself, but she has the best
scones in the world— you’ll see,” Nick said, turning around reﬂex-
ively to make sure no one in the cozy little spot had overheard him.
He didn’t want to become persona non grata at his favorite café for
carelessly pledging allegiance to another scone, even if it was his
grandmother’s.
At a neighboring table, the girl huddled behind a three- tiered
stand piled high with ﬁnger sandwiches was getting increasingly
excited by the conversation she was overhearing. She suspected it
might be him, but now she had absolute conﬁrmation. It was Nicho-
las Young. Even though she was only ﬁfteen at the time, Celine Lim
never forgot the day Nicholas strolled past their table at Pulau Club
*

and ﬂashed that devastating grin of his at her sister Charlotte.
“Is that one of the Leong brothers?” their mother had asked.
“No, that’s Nicholas Young, a cousin of the Leongs,” Charlotte
replied.
“Philip Young’s boy? Aiyah, when did he shoot up like that? He’s
so handsome now!” Mrs. Lim exclaimed.
“He’s just back from Oxford. Double- majored in history and
law,” Charlotte added, anticipating her mother’s next question.
“Why didn’t you get up and talk to him?” Mrs. Lim said excit-
edly.
“Why should I bother, when you swat away every guy who dares
come near,” Charlotte answered curtly.
* Singapore’s most prestigious country club (with membership practically harder to
obtain than a knighthood).
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“Alamak, stupid girl! I’m only trying to protect you from fortune
hunters. This one you’d be lucky to have. This one you can cheong!”
Celine couldn’t believe her mother was actually encouraging her
big sister to snatch this boy. She stared curiously at Nicholas, now
laughing animatedly with his friends at a table under a blue- and-
white umbrella by the pool. Even from afar, he stood out in high
relief. Unlike the other fellows with their regulation Indian barber-
shop haircuts, Nicholas had perfectly tousled black hair, chiseled
Cantonese pop- idol features, and impossibly thick eyelashes. He was
the cutest, dreamiest guy she’d ever seen.
“Charlotte, why don’t you go over and invite him to your fund-
raiser on Saturday?” their mother kept on.
“Stop it, Mum.” Charlotte smiled through gritted teeth. “I know
what I’m doing.”
As it turned out, Charlotte did not know what she was doing, since
Nicholas never showed up at her fund- raiser, much to their mother’s
eternal disappointment. But that afternoon at Pulau Club left such an
indelible mark on Celine’s adolescent memory that six years later and
on the other side of the planet, she still recognized him.
“Hannah, let me get a picture of you with that delicious sticky tof-
fee pudding,” Celine said, taking out her camera phone. She pointed
it in the direction of her friend, but surreptitiously trained the lens
on Nicholas. She snapped the photo and immediately e- mailed it to
her sister, who now lived in Atherton, California. Her phone pinged
minutes later.
BigSis: OMFG! THAT’S NICK YOUNG! WHERE ARE U?
Celine Lim: T&S.
BigSis: Who’s the girl he’s with?
Celine Lim: GF, I think. Looks ABC.
*
BigSis: Hmm . . . do you see a ring?
Celine Lim: No ring.
BigSis: PLS spy for me!!!
Celine Lim: You owe me big- time!!!
Nick gazed out the café window, marveling at the people with
tiny dogs parading along this stretch of Greenwich Avenue as if it
* American- born Chinese.
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were a catwalk for the city’s most fashionable breeds. A year ago,
French bulldogs were all the rage, but now it looked like Italian grey-
hounds were giving the Frenchies a run for their money. He faced
Rachel again, resuming his campaign. “The great thing about start-
ing out in Singapore is that it’s the perfect base. Malaysia is just across
a bridge, and it’s a quick hop to Hong Kong, Cambodia, Thailand.
We can even go island- hopping of Indonesia— ”
“It all sounds amazing, but ten weeks . . . I don’t know if I want
to be away that long,” Rachel mused. She could sense Nick’s eager-
ness, and the idea of visiting Asia again ﬁlled her with excitement.
She had spent a year teaching in Chengdu between college and grad
school but couldn’t aford to travel anywhere beyond China’s bor-
ders back then. As an economist, she certainly knew enough about
Singapore— this tiny, intriguing island at the tip of the Malay Pen-
insula, which had transformed within a few short decades from a
British colonial backwater into the country with the world’s highest
concentration of millionaires. It would be fascinating to see the place
up close, especially with Nick as her guide.
Yet something about this trip made Rachel a little apprehensive,
and she couldn’t help but ponder the deeper implications. Nick made
it seem so spontaneous, but knowing him, she was sure he had put
far more thought into it than he let on. They had been together for
almost two years, and now he was inviting her on an extended trip to
visit his hometown, to attend his best friend’s wedding, no less. Did
this mean what she thought it did?
Rachel peered into her teacup, wishing she could divine some-
thing from the stray leaves pooled at the bottom of the deep golden
Assam. She had never been the sort of girl who longed for fairy-
tale endings. Being twenty- nine, she was by Chinese standards well
into old- maid territory, and even though her busybody relatives were
perpetually trying to set her up, she had spent the better part of her
twenties focused on getting through grad school, ﬁnishing her dis-
sertation, and jump- starting her career in academia. This surprise
invitation, however, sparked some vestigial instinct within her. He
wants to take me home. He wants me to meet his family. The long- dormant
romantic in her was awakening, and she knew there was only one
answer to give.
“I’ll have to check with my dean to see when I’m needed back,
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1 5
but you know what? Let’s do this!” Rachel declared. Nick leaned
across the table, kissing her jubilantly.
Minutes later, before Rachel herself knew for certain her summer
plans, the details of her conversation had already begun to spread
far and wide, circling the globe like a virus set loose. After Celine
Lim (Parsons School of Design fashion major) e- mailed her sister
Charlotte Lim (recently engaged to venture capitalist Henry Chiu) in
California, Charlotte called her best friend Daphne Ma (Sir Benedict
Ma’s youngest daughter) in Singapore and breathlessly ﬁlled her in.
Daphne texted eight friends, including Carmen Kwek (granddaugh-
ter of Robert “Sugar King” Kwek) in Shanghai, whose cousin Ame-
lia Kwek had gone to Oxford with Nicholas Young. Amelia simply
had to IM her friend Justina Wei (the Instant Noodle heiress) in Hong
Kong, and Justina, whose of ce at Hutchison Whampoa was right
across the hall from Roderick Liang’s (of the Liang Finance Group
Liangs), simply had to interrupt his conference call to share this juicy
tidbit. Roderick in turn Skyped his girlfriend Lauren Lee, who was
holidaying at the Royal Mansour in Marrakech with her grandmother
Mrs. Lee Yong Chien (no introductions necessary) and her aunt Patsy
Teoh (Miss Taiwan 1979, now the ex- wife of telecom mogul Dickson
Teoh). Patsy made a poolside call to Jacqueline Ling (granddaughter
of philanthropist Ling Yin Chao) in London, knowing full well that
Jacqueline would have a direct line to Cassandra Shang (Nicholas
Young’s second cousin), who spent every spring at her family’s vast
estate in Surrey. And so this exotic strain of gossip spread rapidly
through the levantine networks of the Asian jet set, and within a few
hours, almost everyone in this exclusive circle knew that Nicholas
Young was bringing a girl home to Singapore.
And, alamak! This was big news.
Kwan_9780385536974_3p_all_r1.c.indd 15 2/20/13 3:31 PM